


In the Course of a Night

by PersianKattt



Category: Good Omens, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Dancing, Dinner, Drinking, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:10:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20257891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersianKattt/pseuds/PersianKattt
Summary: “I’ve come to take you to dinner,” Crowley announces, “and you can’t say no.  We’ve a reservation at the Lecture Room at Sketch and Chef Gagnaire’s prepared seven courses.  Tempting, eh?”“By God,” Aziraphale stops himself, a little guilty after taking the Lord’s name in vain.  He does hope She doesn’t mind.  “But you are good at what you do.”--A week after the thwarted Apocalypse, Crowley takes Aziraphale to dinner.  In the course of a night, Aziraphale finally comes to understand what they mean to each other.





	In the Course of a Night

**In the Course of a Night**

In the course of a human life, an eternity is held. Aziraphale ponders this as he swirls his wine glass, watching the dark liquid turning and turning in its widening gyre, until it’s spent its energy into the air. Fifty years. Sixty. Seventy. Eighty. . . Aziraphale takes a drink and savors the bitter tannin taste, delights in the fullness as he takes a swallow. A hundred years? A hundred and twenty— tops? He’s had his waistcoat longer. 

And, yet, that was all it was. From birth and being held in mother’s arms— through first teeth and first steps, through education, through trials, sorrow, love, loss, joy, poetry, mundanity, fame and obscurity, all the steps taken, all the roads traveled, all the lips kissed and hands held. All the lines read. All the bites taken and vows sworn. The tears shed. Until the fateful end.

Aziraphale feels himself become maudlin. Tears stir. He had wines older than the oldest of men, resting in his cellar. What was that little joke Crowley kept up, since they met in Athens? ( _ “It’s hot as Helios out here!”) _ Crowley had been telling him that joke for thousands of years now, on any given summer day. Thousands of summer days, spent, and spent together. Aziraphale’s tears give way to a hint of a smile, when he remembers that.

In the course of an ethereal life,  _ his _ ethereal life, Aziraphale has lived outside of eternity. Time does not phase him, age him, or hasten him. Time is only the vehicle with which he moves through one moment to the next, without the expectation of an end. A mortal man may wonder what life has in store for him, what he may become, and how he may die. Aziraphale had lived, he believed, as it was Written for him to live. He lived as he believed the Almighty intended for an angel to live. It was constant, and without mystery. Here, in Heaven, we Begin. Here, in Eden, the next chapter unfolds. Here, amongst the humans, to lead them to Goodness. Here, at Armageddon, the test of it all. It would not End for him. 

Well. There was that kerfuffle with the flaming sword. And that whole business about sabotaging Armageddon, just last week. And… most importantly of all— there was the important detour he found in his friendship with his Hellish counterpart here on Earth. 

He and Crowley had danced circles outside the text of what was Written. And now, here they were. Outside of it all, entirely. And, when Aziraphale looked it in the face, he knew it to be true: they were destined to be strangers to time itself, to this world, to Heaven and to Hell, strangers to the ways of mortal men. 

But never to each other. Aziraphale held this tender truth close to his heart, to his immortal soul, like a prayer. 

—

“Angel,” Crowley’s voice fills the still air of the bookshop. To Aziraphale, it’s a windchime, a song. Aziraphale hears a loud slam and click into place as Crowley closes the front door of the bookshop behind him.  _ Well, speak of the Devil, and he shall appear.  _

Aziraphale tries to shout back, but finds he must clear his throat, clear his foolish tears before he can respond. He places his wine glass on the end table by his armchair and swoops his fingers through his hair, hoping for some semblance of order. 

“In here, my dear,” Aziraphale finally calls. Crowley flows into the reading room like a blaze. 

“Angel, are you alright?” Crowley, asks, unblinkingly. Crowley’s curiosity curls around the words.  _ No, _ Aziraphale thinks,  _ Crowley wouldn’t pretend not to notice. He never would. No use obfuscating.  _

“I’ve gotten a bit maudlin off the Cabernet we brought back from Napa,” Aziraphale confesses, gesturing to the open bottle. “I planned to spend the night with a bottle and some illuminated manuscripts, but my mind is wandering, and I haven’t even cracked a page.” 

Crowley reaches for Aziraphale’s glass and takes a drink from it without asking. How like him. Aziraphale can’t help but study him, long and slender as he is, knocking back the glass with abandon, swaying a bit in place as he does. Aziraphale feels the heat from the wine he’d already drunk making itself known as he studies Crowley’s tight and tailored black suit, his sharply undercut hair. The sides were shorn and the crown of his red hair was devilishly swooped and set for dramatic effect. He was stunning and dressed to the nines, as usual. The wine helped Aziraphale’s gaze to linger.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Does taste a bit sad, though. I can see how you’ve succumbed to it.” Crowley smirks and Aziraphale pretends to be peeved so that Crowley has a reason to keep smirking. 

“Heavens! You’ve changed your hair,” Aziraphale says drily, changing the subject. He tries to be nonchalant about it all — but he’s burning to know why Crowley’s stopped in tonight. 

“Time for a change, don’t you think? New chapter, as it is,” Crowley says, pouring another glass of wine and handing it to Aziraphale. Aziraphale accepts it and can’t help but moon over Crowley. So attentive of him. Aziraphale feels altogether too spoiled. 

“I’ve come to take you to dinner,” Crowley announces, “and you can’t say no. We’ve a reservation at the Lecture Room at Sketch and Chef Gagnaire’s prepared seven courses. Tempting, eh?” 

“By God,” Aziraphale stops himself, a little guilty after taking the Lord’s name in vain. He does hope She doesn’t mind. “But you are good at what you do.” 

—

In the car, Crowley natters about the traffic and how annoying all the weekenders are, clogging up the roads when they’re just trying to get to Mayfair. 

They haven’t spoken much about what happened last week, what with the entire— Apocavoided. In the end, what more is there to say? They’d said it all. Or, at least—  _ Crowley _ had. Aziraphale felt his responding words of devotion crawling up out of his heart and sticking in his throat, every night of the last week they’d spent together. Crowley soldiered on as if it were business as usual between them.  _ Bless him _ , Aziraphale thinks. 

As Crowley speeds through the streets, the light from streetlights flickers past, little orbs of light thrown onto Crowley’s strong jaw, his shapely neck. Aziraphale feels struck by the beauty of him. A sloping strip of light illuminates how close Aziraphale’s hand is to Crowley’s thigh on the bench seat. He can feel the heat of Crowley’s body without touching him. It does him in worse than the Cabernet. 

—

“So, what’s the happy occasion?” The waiter asks as they take a seat at the table. Aziraphale stares at Crowley expectantly, wanting to know the answer, as well. 

“Just Saturday night,” Crowley says, and then orders the wine for them. Aziraphale usually does it, and so he can’t help but wonder what Crowley’s up to. As the waiter walks away, Crowley effortlessly places his hand over Aziraphale’s as it rests on the table. Aziraphale tries not to jump out of his skin with the shock of it. His mouth does gape, though. He can’t master himself as well as all that. 

“My good fellow, are you ill?” Aziraphale asks. “You’re not yourself.”

“And what makes you say that, Angel?” Crowley grins and removes his hand from Aziraphale’s as if it weren’t ever there. As if Aziraphale can’t feel it, still. 

“For instance,” Aziraphale says, picking up his napkin and looking pointedly at Crowley. “What’s all this about?” 

“We’ve gone to dinner nearly a thousand times. What’s all the fuss?” Crowley asked, exasperatedly. He looked down at his menu. “Oh, look, ‘the chef’s dessert— seven miniature desserts served in two services’— that’s right up your alley. . . . do you want to do the tasting menu for tonight or the a la carte—” 

“Anthony J. Crowley, out with it. Tell me the truth,” Aziraphale snaps, placing his napkin down on the table and trying not to telegraph every emotion he’s ever felt onto his face. 

They sit in silence for a while. Crowley pretends to read his menu. Aziraphale waits. The gentle sounds of the restaurant fill in the gaps— the soft cling-clang of silverware, glasses, and crockery, the friendly chatter of the diners, the conversations of lovers, the murmur of a piano. 

“I wanted to thank you,” Crowley says, finally, still looking at the menu entry for the desserts. Even behind his dark Valentino glasses, Aziraphale can see the way Crowley flicks his eyes up for a moment to glance at Aziraphale, to gauge his reaction. 

“Dear Lord, Crowley, for what?” Aziraphale says, truly taken aback. This time, he places  _ his _ hand over Crowley’s on the table. 

Aziraphale is out of his mind with the deliberateness of this all. 

For six-thousand years, they’ve been very un-deliberate about it. A knocking of shoulders while sitting next to one another in the amphitheater, or Crowley offering him a hand to get into the horse and carriage was one thing— even their drunken, stumbling, silly laughing through the streets of Venice during the Carnival was innocuous enough. Nights shared over wine or cocoas or coffees at the bookshop, sitting closely, listening to the radio shows. All accidental, all friendly, of course.

Well, Aziraphale reminded himself, that was Before. Before he knew what it was like to walk in Crowley’s skin. Before Hellfire and Holy Water. Before they’d acknowledged what they were to each other. Before Crowley asked him to run away together and forsake it all, everything, except for each other.  _ Alpha Centauri _ , indeed. Aziraphale thinks he might faint when Crowley squeezes his hand back, affectionately. 

“Thank you for staying,” Crowley says and makes eye contact, and holds it. Aziraphale holds his breath, too— he thinks Crowley might even choking up with the threat of tears. Crowley clears his throat and confirms Aziraphale’s suspicions. 

“Staying? Where—  _ where _ would I have gone?” Aziraphale asks, with all sincerity.  _ By God, but his eyes are beautiful. _ Aziraphale’s voice sounds frail to his own ears. “Where? Away from you?”

Crowley ducks his head with emotion and clenches his hand around Aziraphale’s where they’re joined, on the table. “Yes. Anywhere else. You could have chosen to be done with it all after the End, you could have been done with me, with our Arrangement. But here we are. Here we are, again.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, his words dripping sincerity. “Crowley— what’s brought this on? You know I would have never chosen that. I’m sorry to have made you doubt me, Before. You must know… you must know how much you mean to me. How much I need you with me. I would never choose anything—anyone else. You must know that.”

“Angel,  _ please _ ,” Crowley says, holding Aziraphale’s hand for dear life. This is so hard for the both of them. The energy flowing between them is one long, electric heartbeat, passed back and forth. “I—,”

The sommelier arrives with their wine, and Crowley jolts in his chair. Aziraphale cheerfully inspects the bottle and approves it for their meal. The wine is poured, and both raise their wine glasses to toast the evening. As the sommelier leaves, Aziraphale cheekily wraps the arm holding his glass around Crowley’s raised arm holding his glass, like a wedding toast— cross-glass drinking. He remembers playing like this, drunkenly, with Crowley, when they used to go out on the town together, hundreds of years ago. Crowley seems to remember too, from the look on his face, his fond and pleased expression. 

“To us,” Aziraphale proposes, and places his lips on his glass. 

“To us,” Crowley says, like a vow. They drink. 

—-

Dinner is a creative and whimsical affair— course after course of the unexpected and painstakingly-assembled is brought out to entertain them. 

Crowley loves fine dining because he isn’t forced to take more than a bite of each course, and makes sure to give the rest to Aziraphale, who savors it. They make light conversation, commenting on the new books Aziraphale’s read, and the gossip Crowley’s tailor had about the mayor (another mistress— boring stuff, but Aziraphale loves gossip). 

For dessert, Aziraphale gets the chef’s petit fours, as Crowley knew he would. A bit of whipped cream clings to Aziraphale’s lips after a particularly luscious bite. Crowley is so wine-drunk and euphoric in Aziraphale’s company that he leans in, thinking to lick it — to—- to wipe it away. 

The panic that grips him when he’s close enough to Aziraphale’s face to feel his breath is like a bucket of sobering ice-water, poured down his sinuous spine. Aziraphale’s eyes are blue, his cheeks are flushed with pleasure, and his tongue, licking away the cream, is wet and pink. He’s Divine. Crowley pulls back like a whip crack.

“Oh,” Crowley says, in lament. He doesn’t realize he is now gripping the table with both hands. 

“Are you in the mood for a walk tonight, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, his eyes flicking down to Crowley’s clenched hands, and Crowley makes a grateful noise of assent. 

—

“Gorgeousss weather,” Crowley hisses, as soon as they hit the pavement. 

If anyone asked Crowley, he would have said this was the most perfect night of his demonic life. He’d reserved the table for dinner, gone to the barber, gone to the tailor, put effort in. And after seeing Aziraphale’s hungry stare, hearing his faux-offhand comment—  _ “you’ve changed your hair,” _ indeed— Crowley was sky-high with the victory of it all. He still had it.

And—Aziraphale, in the car with him— Aziraphale, at dinner together, holding his hand— what had he said?  _ “You must know. . . how much I need you with me.”  _ The joy of hearing Aziraphale’s happy chatter, his words of devotion, his sighs of pleasure. Crowley had never felt anything near this level of happiness. 

He dared to take Aziraphale’s hand as they walked. Who would stop him, now? Aziraphale cooed like a dove, grasped him ever tighter. 

They passed by storefronts as they walked, hand-in-hand, down the avenue. For Crowley and Aziraphale, the pace at which the city changed could be dizzying. With every century that passed, it was nearly unrecognizable.  _ One of the only constants was the bookshop _ — Crowley thought, something like a home. 

They commented on this and that, in the windows of the shops—  _ oh, those trousers would suit you, Crowley, _ and  _ d’you think, Angel? _ and  _ doesn’t that remind you a bit of the sixteenth century? _ and  _ I don’t see what you mean at all, _ and by the time they made it back to the car, Aziraphale had somehow gotten his arm around Crowley’s waist. Walking this way was ungainly, due to their difference in height, but Crowley bore it in bliss. 

“What’s your pleasure? Where to, next?” Crowley asked, as he opened the car door for Aziraphale. Crowley was utterly struck — Aziraphale seemed to glow in the moonlight. 

“How chivalrous, my dear,” Aziraphale said as he raised his brows. Crowley could tell he was taking the piss. “You usually leave me to get my own door.”

“I’m feeling unusually generous, tonight,” Crowley says, rolling his snakelike eyes.

“I certainly could get used to that,” Aziraphale says, hesitating from getting into the car. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. Crowley can  _ tell _ he doesn’t want to go home yet _ . _

“Angel,” Crowley purrs, with the ghost of Aziraphale’s arm around his waist burning like a brand. Everything inside himself is urging him to back Aziraphale into the Bentley, press himself flush against him, lean down, kiss him, thank him properly— but he says, “Would you like to go to the Candlelight Club?”

“The Candlelight Cl—  _ Swing dancing _ ?” Aziraphale’s entire face lights up in shy excitement. “Oh, Crowley, it’s been years and— I never  _ really _ learned—,”

“Say yes,” Crowley says, leaning in to Aziraphale’s space under the guise of goading him. “Say yes. Let’s not go home, yet.”

“Oh, if you ask like that,” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s ear. “How can I say no?” 

_ Sinful, _ that’s what it was. Crowley pulls away from Aziraphale to help him into the car, and feels dizzy as he walks around to the driver’s side. He grips the steering wheel in one hand, and marvels as Aziraphale laces their fingers together.

—

The speakeasy club is decorated in what modern-day people think that the 1920’s were like. Not so bad, Crowley must admit, if not for the glaring use of technology everywhere. The live, jazzy, big band music, though, now that’s authentic. He pulls Aziraphale along with him along to the bar and orders them two Manhattans. If they’re going to dance, they’re going to need the strong stuff. 

The band is so loud that any time Aziraphale wants to say anything to Crowley like, “Oh, dear, look at her dress! No, the hemline simply wouldn’t have done in the 20’s!” or “What a lively crowd!” or “Goodness!” as he points to some enthusiastic lovers, necking on the dance floor—, any time he wants to say anything to Crowley, he must lean up to speak into his ear. Crowley is on fire with how often Aziraphale is touching him to get his attention— on the shoulder, at the waist, brushing his hand. His breath in Crowley’s ears. The sound of his voice, held so close. They’d barely touched in all their time on Earth, and now it was constant. It was heady. 

The atmosphere is undeniable. Thousands of candles light the Candlelight Club, casting their orange, flickery glow on the hundreds of revelers, in their best pearls, fringe, and pinstripe suits. Aziraphale wrinkles his nose and suddenly, his and Crowley’s suits morph into 20’s versions of their usual black and tan get-ups. Crowley pretends to be peeved until he sees that Aziraphale’s miracled him a rather dapper hat. 

Aziraphale has drained his cocktail, and Crowley takes the liberty of miracling them into swing dancers. The knowledge of how to dance pours itself into their brains via miraculous and otherworldly means, and they both shudder with the swishy sensation. “Let’s shake it, eh?” Crowley says, holding out his hand for Aziraphale to take. 

“My pleasure,” Aziraphale says, taking his hand and pulling Crowley out onto the dance floor. If Crowley hadn’t drawn him so close, there’s no way he could have heard Aziraphale’s happy laugh. As it was, they were hand in hand, and almost cheek-to-cheek. 

The singer up on stage warbles,  _ “There's a boy I'm crazy about, and I know he’s wild about me . . .” _

Aziraphale takes the opportunity to look up at Crowley through his lashes, and smile, and Crowley sweeps him off his feet. Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Charlie Barnet— whatever the band plays, they wag a leg to it. It’s exhilarating, it’s fast, it’s energetic, and Crowley could die happily, having seen Aziraphale dancing and laughing the night away. 

Finally, when they’re getting a little worn out— the music gets a little slower, and Aziraphale throws his arms around Crowley’s neck, all inhibitions thrown to the wind. They recognize the song— Édith Piaf’s, “La Vie en Rose.” Crowley loves this song, and says so. 

They sway in time for a few quiet moments, before Aziraphale asks, shyly, “Take your glasses off?” 

Crowley doesn’t bother trying to be witty. He just does it, sliding them off his face and into his breast pocket. He stares into Aziraphale’s eyes as he brings his arms around Aziraphale’s waist. Crowley can’t quantify the intensity of staring into those blue eyes, swaying to the music, pressed body-to-body with him, with no pretense between them. Crowley can feel the warmth of his Divine light, of pure love, extending beyond the shell of his human body. This isn’t friendly, and it isn’t accidental.

Aziraphale leans up, closes the distance between their faces to press his forehead to Crowley’s. Crowley drags his cheek along Aziraphale’s cheek, bending down along Aziraphale’s neck, wanting to put his lips there, but too afraid to do it.  _ How could he even dare to think he was worthy to? _ He feels the trembling in Aziraphale’s arms, and Aziraphale can hear Crowley’s breathy exhale, as he barely restrains himself. They sway, like that, eyes closed, and holding on to one another until the lights come on.

Crowley could never speak aloud what was in his heart in those moments, because it was inexpressible. Inarticulable. To hold Aziraphale in his arms so intentionally, so publicly and unashamedly after so many years, to feel his embrace, feel the heat of his body pressed back, and all the curves of him— the humanity of him, the Divinity of him. The mutuality of it. The temptation. 

—

“Let’s go home, my dear,” Aziraphale whispers into Crowley’s ear, meaning the bookshop, and knowing that Crowley knows what he means. The look in Aziraphale’s icy blue eyes is so fiery, it burns the air from Crowley’s lungs. 

“Yes, let’s go,” Crowley says, and finally finds the courage to steal a kiss, desperately pressing his lips against Aziraphale’s cheekbone. 

—

On the ride back to the bookshop, they don’t speak too much.    
  
“It was so lovely, Crowley, really,” Aziraphale says, and holds his hand. “Dancing the night away—  _ us _ !” He puts his head on Crowley’s shoulder as he drives. “An evening to remember.”

“I’m glad we agree. Did you enjoy the little hors d’oeuvres at the Club? ” Crowley asks, gently, squeezing Aziraphale’s hand, afraid that any moment the spell of this evening will break. 

As the drive goes on, the silence becomes laden and heavy with both of their thoughts, kept secretly in their own heads. Crowley would bite the fruit of Eden himself if it would give him Knowledge of what Aziraphale was thinking. He pleads with Whoever listens to the pleas of his heart that Aziraphale won’t come to his senses— that he won’t realize that he was consorting with a damned soul, a flawed and unworthy shadow of what an Angel once was. Crowley could never  _ be _ what Aziraphale deserved— an eternal and equal companion. How long could they have this? He could never again stand in God’s light.  _ It had been selfish to pretend, selfish to want this. But wasn’t that what he was? A snake. A manipulator. _

He holds Aziraphale’s hand tight enough to hurt. Every second that ticks by, his heart becomes heavier with the realization that this beautiful night was like a wine glass on the edge of a table, doomed to shatter. 

—

Aziraphale is aching. The ache from the night of dancing is nothing compared to the way his heart is aching when he looks over at Crowley’s twisted expression. A dark cloud seems to have blossomed over Crowley’s brow in the space of minutes. The heady joy— the lust they’d shared while dancing, the carefree way they’d joined their hands and bodies to the music, the way Crowley had pressed a solemn kiss to his cheek— they seemed miles away from it, now. Crowley stops the car in front of the bookshop, and neither of them make a move to get out.

“What’s troubling you?” Aziraphale asks, delicately. He fears he’s lost Crowley entirely to his stormy passion.

“Oh, Angel,” Crowley says, fraught, and turns to grip him by the sleeves of his tan jacket. “Please, don’t forsake me. I may have overstepped the mark— I may have gone too far, too fast— I may never be what you deserve— but I can’t live without you. Even if I’m not fit to— to— don’t make me— have pity, Angel…”

Aziraphale makes a noise of pure shock and he sees that Crowley is beginning to hyperventilate, pulled into the particular misery of panic by the emotions conjured in his earthly body. Aziraphale can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Crowley, where have your thoughts taken you—have I— have I not made it clear to you? My dear, I don’t know what else to say.”

Crowley is in torment and somehow, Aziraphale has left him there to flagellate himself. 

“Come in for a drink, Crowley,” Aziraphale demands, fed up.

“I don’t know if I shou—,” Crowley begins and Aziraphale holds up his hand to stop him. 

“Come in for a drink, Crowley,” Aziraphale repeats this as he exits the car, and, frustratedly, slams the door of the Bentley behind him. For a moment, Aziraphale worries Crowley will drive off. He takes a step, anyway. He has Faith. 

Aziraphale strides into the bookshop, and Crowley follows.

—

As soon as Crowley crosses the threshold of the bookshop and closes the door behind him, Aziraphale has hands on him. Pulling him by the lapels of his suit, Aziraphale pushes him up against the nearest bookcase. A book from a high shelf comes hurtling down with a thunderous noise, but misses them entirely. 

“A _ z _ —,” Crowley begins to crow in shock at the way Aziraphale is acting, and is abruptly cut off when Aziraphale gets so close to his face, that Crowley has to swallow his voice. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, breathing hard and shaking Crowley by the lapels of his jacket in frustration. His cheeks are reddened with the exertion of this. With anger. It’s so hard to say what he’s been trying to say for hundreds, if not thousands of years now. Lifetimes. He tries to compose his voice, but it’s uncontrollable. “You are— you are my... You are my spring, after winter. You are… my lightning strike. My water in the desert. You are… the balm to my wounds. The only... the only one who could ever understand-- you are my gift from God. I never feel Her love  _ more _ than when I am with you.” 

Crowley is shaking. He hears a pathetic sob, and realizes it came from his own throat. “Azi— Aziraphale,” he chokes out. “Please, please don’t say things you don’t mean— I love you—,”

Aziraphale is kissing him so hard that it hurts. That is, it would, if Crowley wasn’t kissing him back with the same force. Crowley could not have anticipated the energy and force of Aziraphale’s kiss, of his love. Aziraphale’s hands are so large and so steady as they grip the sides of Crowley’s face. Crowley feels steadied.

His arms rise to wrap around Aziraphale’s waist, beneath his coat, and over his shirt-- to reach and pull him in closer by his broad shoulder-blades. He can feel Aziraphale’s body through his waistcoat and shirt. So intense, the meeting of their lips and tongues, and breath, and the feeling that something is being exchanged between them-- some Divine and golden energy-- it’s unsustainable, and they break apart to breathe, and soften. 

“I love you, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes a whisper into Crowley’s lips, it’s wet, and they’re kissing again, and Aziraphale’s tongue is in Crowley’s mouth, touching him in ways he has never allowed himself to be touched. Crowley meets him, matches him, reaches and feels him. Aziraphale’s strong body is pinning Crowley to the bookcase, almost painfully. His leg is wedged between Crowley’s legs. In an agonizing moan of pleasure, Crowley lets his head drop back into the leatherbound tomes, lightheaded, and Aziraphale’s plush lips are on his neck, pressing kisses, licking along the apple of his throat. 

“Don’t doubt me anymore,” Aziraphale demands, and they kiss and kiss until Aziraphale feels Crowley’s faith. 

—

All the Californian Cabernet in the world could not make Aziraphale maudlin now, could not convince him he was estranged from time-- no, not now, with his arms around Crowley, with their lips and tongue and bodies connected. The pleasure of their connectedness, their love, burning like hellfire through their earthly veins. He had never felt more shackled to a moment. To fear of the End. 

The sweet noises pulled from his lover’s mouth were finite; the sensations of touching, of togetherness, were as bound to a moment as was human blood flowing through the river of time. Crowley spoke his name and it was a bell, tolling, ringing out into the air until it was spent. He felt his lover’s fingernails, his teeth, mark the passing seconds into his skin. His skin bore the reminder. Crowley kissed him and it was the bite of an apple.

They exchanged ethereal energy: light and darkness, tension and release. They’d spent thousands of years, ticking seconds like grains of sand in the hourglass, endlessly pouring-- they’d spent it pettily, outside of consequence, and waiting for the End. What was it all for-- if not to drink together, to eat, to dance? To touch and to hold? To be parted, and meet again? 

It was here-- the place that they met-- the moments that held them, that passed, that came again-- it was in Crowley’s embrace, here, that Aziraphale truly felt Eternal. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as @vulcanette. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
